It was a lovely, wooded residential neighborhood; although I had never
seen it there before. Each house hidden nicely in the trees, and only the
seldom car wheeling up the dirt road. How nice it must be living so high in the
mountains. Large trees lined the old road with driveways peeling off toward
each home. It was a sunny day. It was loop 5 of the Barkley Marathons. And I
was losing my mind.

The 2005 Barkley Marathons began in the rain. People rushing about in
rain gear, trying to stay in motion until the starting cigarette was lit. I
never trust runners. I am a hiker. I had just descended from New Hampshire, and
it seemed like a good day for shorts. Off we were, and within a few hundred
feet of elevation gain, the rain turned to snow. Dryer, better, less wet. It
felt good to run on bare ground, instead of post-holing up to my eyeballs. A
few of us motored on, easily ahead of the field. Before long they were out of mind.
A pattern soon developed: rising into the snowline, strong wind, very
cold—dropping below snowline, calm, warming-up. After collecting our page from
Book 2, we passed through a gap before Coffin Springs (water drop 1), and I
made the correct prediction that many runners would drop here. The wind and
snow were pumping through the gap and continuing seemed bleak. With each
passing mountain top, the cold bit in a little more, and the chill set in a
little deeper. I was doing everything I could to conserve body heat given my
paltry provisions. I ate everything I could spare, I drank all I could, and I
tucked-in and cinched-up my sparse clothing. I increased pace to maintain
circulation. I dreaded my clothing miscalculation and couldn’t wait until camp
so I could make corrections and put this chill behind me. By Book 4 I peeled
off my soaked polypropylene gloves and pissed on both my hands, long and hard,
in order to regain dexterity. Jim Nelson and I had settled nicely into first
place and we were the ones that were forced to scrape and claw at each book to
displace it from its perch, wrapped tight in several layers of duct tape. I
chose sharp stones and Jim used the edge of his compass to score slashes in the
layers of the tape. At least we would only have to do this on the first
loop. We grappled with every book, climbing leg-up on a tree or stump
opposing one another and tearing fiercely for each new book. Descending Frozen
Head Mountain, just below the summit cone, Jim said, “Get ready.” One step later,
rounding the bend down the fire road, an icy blast welcomed us to the second to
last of the exposed sections of Barkley Trail before reaching the promise of
camp. This was fine by me. I had never yearned for the blessed torture of Big
Hell more, as it would provide the inferno of precious body heat needed to
deliver us out of this icy mess. We collected our final page of loop 1, and out
of the snow we descended--to the land where spectators felt nothing but warm
rain.

Entering camp, Jim and I made the pact to continue as a team, into the prospect
of the nighttime forward loop 2. We had not lost too much time to the weather,
and after refueling, making loop 1 corrections and grabbing our lights, we
ascended Bird Mt. for the second time in 10 hours. We were in scarce company,
but all would be far behind and never seen again. No mistakes were encountered
on the nighttime loop. Stars came out ascending Jury Ridge, and good weather
would be the theme for the remainder of the race. Jim and I moved reasonably
well on loop 2—considering the side-hill mud swath that was now Barkley Trail
and returned to camp as planned early Sunday morning.

Again, in the final meters, we renewed our pact to continue on as a duo. Here
in camp at the loop 2-3 turn-around I slipped, for the first time in my
ultrarunning career, into a severe bout of nausea. I ate nothing and drank
nothing at camp, except for a single Pepcid pill (given to me by Mike Tilden).
I almost vomited at the smell of the prepared beef stew, which Jonboy (my
longtime support crew) had made ready. I told Jonboy to give it to me in a
Ziploc bag to carry (this is a method we use anyway, putting hot food into
Ziplocs, biting the corner off and squeezing it down like a giant gel). After
some minor foot taping to save slight hot spots in the middle of my forefoot on
both feet, we were gone. By Chimneytop I felt better. By Indian Knob I
was inhaling food like a starved P.O.W. This was my first miracle of the run.
We passed three runners continuing in the opposite direction: Craig Wilson on
Zipline, who was all done and making his way back to camp, Wendell (?) who was
somewhere (I don’t recall), and Mark Dorion on Rat Jaw. We hammered the
remainder of loop 3 and finished with enough time to tackle Big Hell in
daylight on loop 4, my fourth consecutive fun-run finish.

Several runners and crew were there to send us off on loop4, and with another
fast turnaround, we made our way into the dreaded, nighttime, crux of the
run—the backwards loop 4. By then we had partitioned the loop into sections of
alternating leading and following. Jim had nailed Big Hell backwards, along
with Buttslide and Stallion Mountain. I had nailed Little Hell and the North
Section. We had both contributed to a dead reckoning of Zipline. We were now
operating in an unstated pact. Entering the woods on loop 4 (still daylight) I
spotted Mike Bur exiting. He had dropped from loop 3 and was hiking back to
camp. He talked briefly about his slowed pace and difficulty finding books
alone in the reverse direction. I rudely cut him short, because Jim and I had
unfinished business further on, and needed to press on furiously before dark.
Off we went, and I knew the two of us were all that remained on course. I
silently wished that Mike had persevered through loop 3. I had hiked with Mike
before, and I knew he would be chiding himself in only a few minutes. We
quickly notched off Big Hell, and Zip line. However, in our foggy demented
outlook, we managed to fully botch Little Hell, placing us in dire straits in
order to make the loop 5 cut-off. After regaining form and finding our book at
the New River, we were once again enamored by the severe landslides along the
river which managed to turn an ordinarily simple section into an unrecognizable
slur of nonsense. Beyond the river, although on course, we slowed to a death
march. In our sleepiness, and with the severely deteriorated footing, we
abandoned our previous method of finding the logical route, and substituted
finding any upward route to the summit of Stallion Mountain. From there to the
North Section is a blur. Once on the North Section, we staggered and fought
through false switchbacks, blowdowns, deer trails and miles of muddy mess until
it appeared that we were moving forward for lack of having anything better to
do. We switched taking lead many times, and were just barely hanging on to the
time limit. Sleepiness was inevitable and the trail meandered onward. In the
darkness we knew not whether we were ascending, descending, or standing still.
I have always had a habit on the North Section of mentally clicking off each
significant peak as they are encountered (even though I don’t really know all
the names). I think it goes something like this: Squire Knob, Bald Knob, Not
Jury Ridge, Jury Ridge. I had managed to do this still. Somewhere around Bald
Knob, where the trail was blurring into an animated wave of dirt and branches
and vines, Jim caught up with me. He said this: “I can’t go any more. I need to
take a nap. We will be bugled-out in three and a half hours if we can’t make
camp. You go ahead.”

I said not one word. (This is very uncharacteristic of me.) I don’t remember if
Jim said that he couldn’t go on, or that he couldn’t go on without sleep.
All I heard was ‘three and a half hours’ then ‘BUGLE’. I did not come here to
be tapped-out. I was straddling a downed tree when he said his piece. My brain
changed from a rotten banana into a laser. I had a goal; a very clear and
defined goal—CAMP--in three and a half hours. I struck off and didn’t
think about Jim again. I summited Not Jury Ridge and Jury Ridge, collected my
last page and climbed Bird Mtn. The sun had come up and it was a new race. No
more nighttime hallucinations, just the clarity of the immortal 5 loop finish. This
was the second miracle of my run.

Coming down Bird, I let out my Whoop!, and was greeted by the remaining warm
bodies in camp after a 15+ hour 4th loop. Jonboy had moved the truck
next to the yellow gate and I had manufactured a thirty-minute buffer before
the turnaround for the twelve hour loop 5. Everyone was very encouraging, and
agreed that 12 hours was plenty of time for the forward loop 5, which I quickly
secured. Mike Tilden was especially encouraging as he had been in my position just
one year earlier and felt confident for me in my situation. I remember watching
Mike a year ago, before his 5th loop. His entire being burned with
purpose; he had the Eye of the Tiger—an unmistakable and intimidating glare
that made everyone around him feel like naked school children in the presence
of a lion. While changing shoes, eating and drinking, Gary called out “15
minutes!” at intervals, reminding me of my time limitations. He said, “I’ll
make it easy on you”, and he gave me race number 250—a nice round one…easy to
remember. With nine minutes to spare I shoved off to cheers—into the magical
abyss of the Barkley 5th loop. I was on seldom treaded ground. I was
one of 7 people in twenty some years to ever strike out into such hallowed
territory.

The day heated up as I climbed Bird for the 5th time in 49 hours,
with no sleep. I knew not which bend in the trail would produce a Jim Nelson.
After summiting Bird, and taking a few switchbacks down, he finally made his
appearance. He told me to move quickly and to never stop, and to ‘get going!’ I
made up my mind that if I never sat down, even at a book, I could save nearly
an hour, and I felt that a 10 ˝ hour loop was possible. Down I went to Philip’s
Creek for Book 1, and without sitting down to sort my pack; I was off, up Jury
Ridge.

This is where things began to get hazy. It began subtly. I had packed light
given the perfect weather for a daylight loop. Ascending Jury Ridge I had had
peeled down to shorts and no shirt and things suddenly began to feel like any
ordinary trail run—not the critical 5th loop. This I thought was funny,
and I pressed on. In fact I felt so good and I was moving so well that on my
loop 5, I could have buried any of the other competitors on their loop 1. Even
funnier things lay ahead.

Continuing along the North Boundary Trail, I slowly became confused by
intersecting trails that I would ordinarily follow or omit based on pure
Barkley trail savvy. How had this route always been so second hand? Even in
my rookie years? Switchbacks became confusing—not certain individual
switchbacks, but the whole concept of switchbacking up a mountain became
something so foreign that I felt I was walking forward and backward on a single
stretch of trail 5-10 times, getting nowhere. The buildings and houses that I
was hallucinating to be tucked away in the bush became entire neighborhoods of
homes, lined up along the Boundary Trail. I was now a garbage man on his route
trying to identify which house to visit for trash duty, and which to bypass. I
was then a landscaper, then an ice-delivery man, (like in the old days in New
Hampshire). Does this house need ice, or are they all set? I searched for
wheelbarrows with which to clear the trail. The very concept of hiking became
confusing, as if I were there to clear trail, or carry lawn refuse from a house
to the street.

Through all of this, my habit of counting peaks along the North Section had
survived, and it revived at the sight of the old Legacy Tree—an enormous
ancient oak, posted with a small tin diamond, which was to save it from the
cutter’s saw. I chided myself at the sight of the Legacy Tree. This is it!
I’m not crazy. Me and Craig talk about this tree all the time! Then the
huge cherries, and a second oak. Craig says, “The stories this tree could
tell.” Dude, straighten up! You’re on loop 5! Loop 5! What the f%*k are you
doing? Hike! Stop looking at things.

The remaining peaks somehow passed,
and I knew I should begin looking for the ditch—that S.O.B. Where is the
ditch? How do I get there? I blew through the clear-cut with no
problem—somehow I had drawn upon previous planning, and I had one less obstacle
between me and the yellow gate. I was then given a gift: a trail. My friend
had given me this gift in order to find the ditch. (Are we
starting to see my frame of mind?) All I had to do was run this gift-trail, and
the ditch would be at the end, and then the ponds; but the gift-trail was long,
and it was lined with houses—those touristy-types that surround the lake I live
on in New Hampshire. Usually they cut all the trees down on the “view” side,
and they all look ridiculous. Rayder Creek soon roared up ahead, and the S.O.B.
came into fuzzy view. I crossed the ditch and looked for the ponds. Nothing.
Just more trail. Back and forth I went, screaming like a lunatic in an evil
nightmare. Where the hell are the ponds? The little trail that climbs
the tailings, ‘piled high to the outside.’—where are they? I traversed this
short stretch perhaps 5 or 6 times, back and forth. Even after finding the
ponds, I returned to the ditch in disbelief of the distance between.

Where is Mike Dobies’ house? Who the f**k moved Mike
Dobies’ house?!

I was now losing my mind in the full definition of the
phrase. The Barkley would be forgotten for minutes on end although the premise
lingered. I HAD to get to the Garden Spot, for…why? Was there someone
there?

Content with finally finding the ponds, although still
confused as to the whereabouts of Dobies’ house, I climbed the tailings and
motored around them to face the next significant climb of the Barkley
Trail—Garden Spot. From the bottom I sighted the top, and I climbed in
bee-line fashion along the North Boundary until finally nailing the summit, and
book 2. I looked at my watch—12:30. Four hours, 21 minutes for Bird Mtn. and
the North Boundary Trail. This was the last time I looked at my watch. It was
the last time that time contained any sort of significance. It was my
last forward step toward the yellow gate, and the Barkley 100 finish.

I sat beside Book 2 for several hours. I never collected my page. I didn’t know
there was a page there to collect. Loop 5 became a final exam that I could just
make-up later. I was a one-hour downhill away from the halfway point in the
loop. There were cars down below me in the gap. Hikers maybe? Mountain
dwellers? Who knows, just people moving about. Walking in their lawns, while
neighbors drove past. The race just faded away. I was just….just…there--looking
around. If my mother had walked up to me at that point, I would have looked at
her like she was a falling leaf.

After some time I walked down to the gap so I could hitch a ride with one those
cars, but they were all gone. (This is a profound concept. See, on a topo, it
looks as if one could see the gap from the Garden Spot, and in the memory it
seems so as well. But one could no more see into the gap from that position as
they could see the campfires back at Big Cove. But I could.) So I
stood in a shin-deep puddle for about an hour--squishing the mud in and out of
my shoes. No cars. I inspected every 4-wheeler trail intersecting the gap,
hoping to find a house. I walked long, up each road, but found nobody, and no
houses. I walked down to Coffin Springs (the first water drop). I sat and
poured gallon after gallon of fresh water into my shoes. I inspected each
interesting landmark of the area, even the spring itself. The Cumberland
Trail passes through here, and I marveled at the trail signs, and its white
blazes. I inspected the painted trees, marking the park boundary; sometimes
walking well into the woods just to look at some paint on a tree.

I had only one road left to explore, and the Cumberland Trail blazes followed
it. So off I went, without any recollection of time, place, the Barkley, the
people at camp, Jonboy, nothing.

I thought of Spring, and vernal pools, and spring peepers. I saw some tadpoles
in the tire ruts filled with water. I expected a passing car at any moment so I
could throw out a thumb. If one did stop, I would have been quite a sight. None
passed. Not for 6 hours. I was on a gated road (which is now called a trail)
that led directly back to camp. I could have been on numbered highway to Kentucky
for all I knew, and I would have been just as content with that. I found a nice
stick. It was perfect for bashing briars, which I did, on the roadside for
extended periods of time. Just whipping them and bashing them. Then it was
great for hitting small pebbles and hearing where they landed way down the
mountainside. Keep your eye on the f*#king pebble, man.

When it cooled off, I had a
long-sleeve shirt. When I got hungry, I had food. When it got dark, I had a
light. Wow, isn’t it strange that I have all this perfect stuff, just when I
need it? Whenever I needed something else, PRESTO!, right in my pack. Strange.

I rounded a bend and BAM!—Big Cove Branch. Oh, shi…….

It all came flooding back in waves of sickening
heartache. The Barkley. Dude, you just pissed away the Barkley 100. Ironically,
I returned to camp at the precise time I was expected—just from the wrong
direction. There were the bodies, lined up at the yellow gate. Jonboy called
out, “Ange!” (Andrew shortened) I felt sheepish. I felt like an utter loser. I
was led to the fire, to add to the annals of epic harrowing tales of failure.
Mine may be the best yet, and Blake may be the only one who can truly
sympathize.

I gazed into the fire and spoke for a long time—eight grown men stood around
listening silently. Oh, the fire was a cacophony of voices and faces and
ancient script burned into the logs. Gary’s words seared my soul when he said,
“When you left here, you looked to be in total control.” This is the final and
most important quality of a successful Barkley runner—being in total control.